


Those Feelings That Stick

by darkjaden825698



Category: More Happy Than Not - Adam Silvera
Genre: Amnesia, Canon Compliant, Canon Disabled Character, Disability, Emotions, Fluff, Gay, Light Angst, M/M, Memory Loss, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 19:08:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 3,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17855357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkjaden825698/pseuds/darkjaden825698
Summary: Living with anterograde amnesia makes life difficult, to say the least. The important thing is to find the feelings worth hanging on to. A story of making the most out of life, when you aren't around to remember it.MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE ENDING OF THE BOOK





	1. Loneliness

**Author's Note:**

> So this idea came to me pretty much in a dream (I was like near the point of falling asleep when this idea just came to me) and initially I was just like "Aw that's a sweet headcanon I like that," but then as I lay back down, the idea kept ruminating and taking form and eventually I got the original character idea that would become Rex.
> 
> Short disclaimer, but I only did a bit of surface-level research on anterograde amnesia for this--wiki articles, a couple scientific/medical sites about symptoms and treatments. So I don't claim to be an expert on this subject. If you have or had/know someone who has/had anterograde amnesia and I got stuff wrong, you're free to point them out, but for the purposes of this story, I think it works just fine, wholly accurate or not.
> 
> Now, I'm pretty sure I'm done with this one, but since I keep coming up with new ideas every five minutes or so, I'm gonna mark this one as complete with an asterisk.*
> 
> *May expand and edit later
> 
> Oh, also, side note, but it's been a while since I've read this book so I may have gotten some of the details wrong (namely I can't remember if Aaron even has a cell phone, but you could also explain that by him buying one with his disability checks if he didn't lol)
> 
> All that being said, I hope you enjoy this one, because I'm pretty fucking happy with it lol

I wake up in a panic, not knowing where I am. Not remembering where I went to sleep last night. Calm washes over me when I realize I’m at home, in my bed, and I get the sense that this panic isn’t out of the ordinary for me.

My phone buzzes. It’s a notification, reminding me to check my notes. I quickly open the notes app and flip through it. Whenever something happens to me, anything I feel like is worth remembering, I’ll write it down in my phone to read later, because I can’t remember it naturally. Not anymore.

Apparently, I went to the park yesterday with my brother. We rode bikes. Which is cool, because I distinctly remember not being able to ride a bike before.

Living with anterograde amnesia sucks. Not that I can really remember what it’s like most of the time. My life is lived through secondhand accounts. I have become a chapter in somebody else’s story.

Whenever I relapse, it feels like a part of me dies, and another part is reborn. Like I’m a newborn baby springing into the world with sixteen years of memories and not a day more, and I replace the old me that I used to be. Every day, every hour, every couple minutes, I feel that loss like a dull blade, shoving itself deeper and deeper into my heart, without ever piercing it through.

It can feel really lonely. I may not be able to remember what I had for breakfast, or if I’ve brushed my teeth or not. But the loneliness, it sticks with me, like a leech against my skin. I have more than one entry in my notes talking about the loneliness, and how of all things for my brain to remember, why did it have to be emotions?

I spend the morning copying my notes by hand into a composition book. I’m almost finished with my second one. Mom tells me that copying notes helps with retention. It’s more of a study tip for college students, but I figured it can’t hurt to try it with me. So far, I’ve been unsuccessful, though; I’ll read through my notes, hoping that something will feel familiar to me. But it always feels like I’m just reading a really sad, boring novel about some guy. Some guy who isn’t me.

But it is me. And that’s what makes it so much harder.

As my eyes scan the pages, my own handwriting penning these scenes that would be happy memories—time spent with my family, trips to the comic book store with my friends. I’m sure in those moments I did feel happy. But what’s the point of being happy if you can’t remember it twenty minutes later?

I’ve just finished copying down my notes, when Mom comes in the room and asks me if


	2. Discovery

One of the small solaces I’ve taken lately is in comic books. I’ve always loved comics, but now, they’re basically the only thing I can read. Each issue is short enough for me to retain the entire plot before losing it, and not remembering it means I can read it for the first time over and over again. Sometimes, I’ll jot down quick notes while I’m reading so I can quickly recap the plot whenever I get a new issue.

The books themselves never have any lasting impression on me, obviously, but sometimes I seem to internalize their morals and messages. Like, I read this one where Iceman comes out as gay, and it has this message about being true to yourself. I only know this because I wrote it down in my journal, but ever since then, I’ve started becoming a bit truer to myself.

All of this started because I couldn’t admit or accept that I was gay. But now, not only do I admit it, I kind of own it. I mean, I don’t go around telling people, I don’t think. But I no longer hide it from myself. That’s one of the feelings that has stuck with me, the feeling of being myself, of not lying anymore. I don’t really see the point in lying, since I won’t even remember what I was lying about anyway.

Wait, what was I…?

Oh, so I’m at the comic store with my brother, Eric. Apparently, he takes me sometimes. Mom never lets me go anywhere on my own anymore. Which I understand, but it’s not like I have dementia. I remember how to get home, and I know how to ride a bike now. Granted, half the time, I can’t remember which bike is mine, which is why I took a picture of it and made it my lock screen.

You’d think that Mom being so controlling of me now would get on my nerves, but I’m actually kind of grateful for it. Maybe I was irritated about it in the past, but hell if I remember. Maybe one day I decided to just stop being bitter about it and that was one of the emotions that stuck.

 

“That’s a good issue,” he says. “Have you read the spinoff one where Spider-Man is actually Dock Ock in Peter’s body?”

“I don’t…know,” I say. Who the hell is this guy? I’m standing in front of him, and he’s smiling at me like we’ve been talking for a while. But I’ve never seen his face before in my life. Well, I probably have, and just don’t remember it. God, I hate this amnesia thing.

“You don’t know?” he says, cocking an eyebrow at me. He’s taller than me, which is—let’s just say it’s a feat. And he’s got this tousled brown hair and tan skin and there’s a gap between his front teeth. But his eyes are what I’m drawn to the most. They’re so fierce and green, like an ocean wave pulling me under.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “But um, who are you?”

His face lurches, and I feel like I’ve just offended him. Sorry, dude, it’s not my fault.

“Um, I’m Rex,” she says. “We…we just introduced ourselves like two minutes ago.”

“Fuck,” I say. “I’m sorry.” My eyes are burning, and my cheeks have flared up like the blacktop on a sunny summer afternoon.

I hate when this happens, when I reset while somebody’s talking to me. I don’t know, it’s probably happened before, but I have to explain myself to somebody I don’t even know, and every time I do it, it feels like the first time, and my heart is racing, and I’m probably crying, and shit shit shit. What do I do? I can never remember what to do, how to explain this. Should I just be direct? I mean, I guess I might as well, it’s not like I’m gonna remember it if I embarrass myself or something.

Fuck.

“Hey, are you okay?”

And suddenly there’s this _really_ cute guy standing in front of me. And he’s looking at me with so much concern in his eyes that I know we must have met before. I don’t know his name. I can’t remember his name. I can’t remember if I’ve told him mine.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, Aaron,” he says, and puts a hesitant hand on my shoulder. “I’m Rex.” This probably isn’t the first time he’s told me even in the last twenty minutes, because the way he says it sounds like he’s trying to jog my memory. Which isn’t going to happen. Sorry, buddy. “You were starting to tell me about your amnesia?”

Relief washes over me. I’ve already told him, which means now I don’t have to. One of the small comforts this condition gives me. “Right. Um, well, I can’t form new memories,” I tell him. “So like, I have no idea how long we’ve been talking, but to me, it’s been like, thirty seconds.”

“Okay,” he says. And I thought it would sound condescending, but it doesn’t. His voice is filled with compassion, with understanding.

I feel like he gets me. And I hope that’s one of the feelings that stick.

 

“Who was that boy you were talking to?” Eric asks, grinning and nudging me in the elbow. We’re exiting the comic book store, and I’m holding a small stack of comics, mostly Spider-Man. Which is weird, because I’m not the biggest Spider-Man fan or anything.

“What boy?”

Eric shakes his head. “Duh, right.” He chuckles to himself. “Sorry, sometimes even _I_ forget.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about. I look behind me, and there’s a ridiculously cute guy at the counter behind us. He catches my eyes and smiles at me. He has a gap in front teeth that’s kind of adorable. My face gets hot.

“I saw you type something into your phone,” Eric says. “Maybe you wrote down something about him.”

“Oh,” I say, fishing my phone out of my pocket. “Maybe.”

I tap open the notes app, and there’s a new one at the top. I mean, I guess they’re all new to me, but this one’s timestamped just a few minutes ago. It’s only got one word, _Rex_ , followed by a ten-digit number.

“I…think his name is Rex?” I say.

“That’s all you got?”

“I think this is his phone number?”

“Shit, dude! You got a guy’s phone number without even remembering? How come you’re getting more action than me?”

“I am?” I say, suddenly panicked that I might have had sex with somebody without even knowing it. Even if I consented in the moment, the thought of it feels strange and scary to me.

“No, I mean. As far as I’m aware, you haven’t, uh…” he trails off. I think talking about gay sex with his younger brother is still kind of an uncomfortable place for him. Understandably so. “But like, you just got a dude’s number.”

“He’s cute,” I say without thinking. But I already can’t remember what he looks like. I just remember that he’s cute.

Of all the things to stick, I find it kind of strange that that’s one of them.


	3. Safety

It’s funny to me that, even though I can’t remember the dumbest fucking things, I can remember my dreams near perfectly when I wake up. It only lasts a few minutes, so I tend to jot them down in my notes really quick before they’re gone, but they stick with me. Sometimes I’ll forget the actual “plot” of the dream, and just end up writing down how it made me feel. And sometimes I don’t even need my notes to recall them.

Last night I had a dream where I was flying, and then this boy with brown hair showed up, and I felt safe. I remember that pretty vividly. Like that was the only word I could think of to describe that feeling. Safe.


	4. Familiarity

“Aaron, you there?” comes the voice on the other side of the line. I recoil a bit, because I forgot I was on the phone and wasn’t expecting to hear a voice against my ear.

“Y-yeah,” I say. “Who is this?”

“It’s Rex,” he says.

And even though this is probably the fifteenth time he’s had to tell me his name since we’ve been on the phone, he doesn’t even sound remotely annoyed.

I’ve written about that a lot, people getting annoyed when I can’t remember things. Even Mom and Eric have to bite their tongue sometimes. It’s another of those feelings that have stayed—the feeling that I’m just a hindrance to everyone around me. It’s like we’ve moved past the stage where everybody was crying and pitying me all the time and straight into irritation.

But not Rex.

Rex, who I met at the comic store.

I didn’t remember that, it’s just written on a sheet of paper in front of me. But the feeling is familiar. I read the words and know that they’re true. I’m talking to Rex, the cute boy I met at the comic book store.

“Right, sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“Talking to me has to be a real chore.” I give a nervous laugh. “Always having to backpedal and re-explain things to me.”

“Not at all,” he says. “I love talking to you.”

I swear to God, my heart fucking stops cold dead for a second. Or maybe I just forgot about it beating. But wow. He _loves_ talking to me. Not puts up with me. Not tolerates my memory relapses and constant confusion just so we can chat about comics. He _loves_ it.

And even though I have never spoken to this person before in my life, I say, “I love talking to you too,” because something tells me it’s true.


	5. Music

I like listening to music for the same reasons I like reading comic books. It’s all new to me, which is exciting. I’m listening to this one song right now, and I’m smiling like an idiot, and this guy is smiling over at me, and he’s really cute. I know him, though. I don’t know who he is, but his presence doesn’t feel abnormal. I mean, he’s in my apartment, so he’s definitely not some random stranger.

“What?” I say.

“Just, you.”

“What about me?”

“Just your reaction to this song. We’ve listened to it a million times, but every time you smile like it’s the first time you’ve heard it.”

“Well—”

“I know,” he cuts me off. “To you, it really _is_ the first time. But it’s just, it’s cute.”

My cheeks burn. “You’re cute,” I say. Normally, I wouldn’t even _dream_ of saying such a thing, but the words feel familiar on my tongue. I must have told him this before. I must know that it’s okay to say such things to him.

He smiles at me. “Aaron, do you want to


	6. Affection

I wake up in a panic, not knowing where I am. Not remembering where I went to sleep last night. But a calm washes over me when I feel a warm pair of arms wrap around me.

“Hey,” comes a voice. It’s familiar, though I can’t put a face to it. “It’s okay, Aaron. It’s Rex. You’re with me. You’re with your boyfriend.”

Rex. My boyfriend. None of this rings a bell to me, but it feels right. One of those feelings that stick.

I still can’t put a face to this name or this voice until I shift and see him—brown hair with big ears peeking out; intense, green eyes that shade me like the leaves of a tall tree; smooth brown skin and a soft smile with a gap between the front teeth. And even though I could search my memory for eternity and not find a glimpse of him, I know him. He’s here with me, and I know him.

“Oh,” I say, smiling ear to ear. “Hey.”

He kisses me, and it’s like a first kiss: exciting and heart-wrenching and a little bit awkward. And I feel like melting chocolate. His lips taste like it too. And everything is all so foreign yet familiar. Like déjà vu. I know this face; I know these lips; I know that smile.

“So I was thinking,” he says. “How would you feel about


	7. Love

“Are you sure about this?” he asks.

“Sure about what?” I say.

He smiles. This is Rex, I think. It’s a name that keeps popping up. Amensiacs like me can still learn because it’s their declarative memory—recollection of facts—that gets axed off, not their procedural memory. Which is why I can remember how to ride a bike even though I learned it after my injury.

But Rex is different. I’ve read his name, said his name, so many times, that it’s sort of become procedure. It’s like his name is etched in my heart.

“Aaron,” Rex says with a chuckle. “I want you to take a look around and use context clues to figure out what.”

I look down, and immediately blush. I’m in my boxers. So is he. We’re in a room that I don’t remember ever being in, but I assume is his room. A box of condoms lays open on his bedside dresser.

Blood rushes to my cheeks. “Oh.”

“We can stop if you want to,” he says. “I would never want you to do something you’re uncomfortable with.”

But my body is reacting the way it should—at least _that’s_ normal. And I want to do this. I _really_ want to do this. Which is strange, because just a few months ago I had basically come to terms with the fact that I would never have sex again. Because what would be the point? Even if I’m lucid through the whole thing, I wouldn’t ever remember it. So why bother, right?

Except with Rex, it’s different. It’s not just about me getting off. (Not that it ever was, but you know.) I want him to feel good just as much as me. Moreso, even. Since he’ll be around to remember it. And it’s more than that. I want this connection, I want to be with him and hold him and feel him, all of him.

Plus, I feel like, even if I won’t remember it, my body will. My heart will.

“Yes,” I say. “I want to do this.”

“Okay,” he says, smiling at me. I can tell he’s been wanting this for a long time. I don’t know how long, because I’ve just met this man a few minutes ago, but it’s undoubtedly longer than with any normal couple. He pulls out a sheet of paper.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“Consent form.” He laughs sheepishly. “So that future-you can be sure you actually wanted this.”

This sounds like he’s speaking from experience. “Wait, we haven’t…before, have we?”

He shakes his head. “No, but there have been a number of times that you couldn’t remember wanting to go somewhere or do something and I had to convince you it was your suggestion.”

“Really? Like what.”

“They’re in your journals,” he says. “I probably won’t have time to explain it all now.”

“True,” I say, and grab a pen to sign. “This is…really thoughtful of you,” I say. “Thinking of…how I could react to this.”

“You’ve told me about your insecurities about sex before.”

“I have?”

He nods. “And I guess it should go without saying, not that you’ll remember me saying it anyway, but if you need to stop, if you feel uncomfortable, just let me know and I will stop.”

“Guess there’s no point in coming up with a safe word, huh?”

Rex smirks, and I can see the gap in his teeth. “Probably not.”

He leans over, right as I finish signing my name, and plants a kiss on my lips. “I love you,” he says.

“I love you, too,” I say. The words feel comfortable on my lips.


	8. Comfort

I read through my journals again. I have an entire stack of them now. Enough to fill an entire shelf on the bookcase. The place I am is unfamiliar, yet at the same time, it’s not. I navigate through the apartment as if I’ve lived here my entire life. But according to my journals, it’s only been a year since Rex and I moved in together. Mom was nervous. She wouldn’t let me help bring up any of the furniture, for fear that I would forget where I was and drop the couch on my toes or something. Eric and Rex did most of the heavy lifting.

It’s funny, every time I see Rex’s name in my journals, I still can’t put a face to it. I still can’t hear his voice in my head. But he’s there, and I remember him. I don’t remember any of the things we’ve done together, and I can’t even remember his name half the time, but I know him in my heart.

It still feels like I’m reading somebody else’s memoir, but getting to experience this person falling in love, day after day, it makes me so happy. Because I know that it’s me. And I know that it’s Rex. And falling in love, that’s one of those feelings that stick.


End file.
